


The Tower of Lailoken

by euromagpie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, M/M, could be bromance - Freeform, i guess this is more preslash than anything, no wait ive changed my mind its pretty Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8203751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: Gwaine comes across a tower in the middle of the forest, and the sorcerer who 'lives' there - who is neither a maiden, nor noble and who has a perfectly respectable haircut, thank ye very much. A night of drinks become a night of stories shared.(set in an indetermined period of time, but before Arthur becomes king)





	

“Ho, fair princess, and let down your long hair!”

Merlin wanted to throw something, something _heavy_. He looked around for a few minutes before realising he’d already chucked the _encyclopaedia Ogham_ at the last knight and all his other books he loved too much to sacrifice. Instead, he made do with thunking his head several times on his desk. In the end, he stuck his head out of his tower window and glared down at the small figure below.

“I’m no maiden, I’m no noble and my hair isn’t that long. Good day.” He finished, thinking the matter dealt with. Sir Dagonet had hurried off quite quickly upon learning who resided in the tower, and while Sir Valiant had been perfectly beastly, not letting up with his shouted insults for several hours, having an encyclopaedia land on his head from several stories up seemed to have driven the message home.

There was a moment of silence, only the birds chirping merrily in the distance, and Merlin had the thought that he might be able to return to his books in peace. It was not to be.

“Well, mate, don’t suppose you’ve got a ladder or something up there instead? Don’t fancy my chances climbing up, my hands are bloody freezing.”

Merlin stuck his head out of the window in disbelief.

“Didn’t you hear me? You’ll get no reward for so-called ‘rescuing’ me.”

The small figure below shrugged.

“But it’ll make a good story, ey? Besides, it’s getting dark and you don’t seem cruel enough a fellow to leave a man to ride through dangerous, bandit infested woods without a safe night’s rest, right?”

Merlin opened and closed his mouth for a bit, before resting his elbow on the window ledge and propping his chin up on his palm. He took a glance at the horizon; indeed, the sun was already beginning to set, bronze light lengthening the shadows of the trees surrounding the tower. He could see the top leaves light up with white fire, and knew that in half an hour the day would be snuffed out and oppressive night would fall. Besides, the forest _was_ dangerous, and from his experience he knew it was filled with far more deadly creatures than bandits or Saxons.

He bit his lip.

“I’m a sorcerer, you know.” He remarked, almost casually, waiting to see the man’s reaction. If he was from Camelot, he would turn tail and run, right about now-

“Great, does that mean your place is warm?” Came the unexpected reply. As he watched, the stranger held something up in hand and waved it encouragingly.

“Plus, I’ve got _med_.” He offered.

Merlin made his mind up.

“Alright. Hang on a bit.” Merlin shuffled back into his small room and quickly unearthed the coil of rope, knots placed along its length. With a flash of his golden eyes, the rope slithered out of the window. A few seconds after, it started to sway and creak as the stranger began to climb.

By the time the man reached the tower room, Merlin was seated back at his desk – it was the comfiest seat in the room. The space itself was relatively small, and had started out pretty bare; a simple _pallet_ to sleep on, with a small table with a broken leg and a tiny stool. Now, it also had a desk with a padded chair at it, an extra bed shoved up against the wall, with curtains at the window and books stacked up against the wall. There were a few cabinets which held his chipped crockery and food supplies. The floor was also liberally strewed with clothes, which he quickly cleaned and folded on a cabinet with a muttered spell. There was even a crackling fireplace.

The stranger clambered into the room and flipped his hair. Merlin’s heart gave a small thud.

Brown eyes roved over the room with a curious glint in them before landing on Merlin. He grinned and strode forward, hand outstretched.

“Gwaine, at your service.” He introduced himself, with another heart-pulsing flip of his hair.

Hesitantly, Merlin shook the hand – it was large and long-fingered, with callouses from sword-fighting and hard living. But his palms were warm and dry and the handshake was firm and welcoming.

He cleared his throat.

“Um, I’m Merlin….welcome?” He wasn’t really sure how to do this. He’d never invited anyone to his tower before. But Gwaine didn’t seem to feel his awkwardness, or was good enough to ignore it.

“So, a sorcerer, huh? No offense, but you don’t much look like one.”

“None taken; I get that a lot, apparently.” If Merlin sounded a bit grumpy about that, he thought he was well within rights. If people were going to believe he had magic, he’d rather they didn’t sound so _disappointed_ about it. Maybe he _should_ spend more time 80 years old. Maybe he’d get more respect then. Unconsciously, his nose wrinkled in Dragoon’s way.

Gwaine chuckled, a low, warm sound like brandy heated in front of the fire, and Merlin decided he very much liked the sound. Thankfully, Gwaine looked like the kind of man not to be stingy with his mirth.

“You said you had _med_ , sir knight.” Merlin prompted, eagerly.  He’d had nothing but gritty water and fruit juice for _months_. Gwaine pulled the flask from his belt and threw it to Merlin, who uncorked it and took a happy sip.

“You’re welcome, master sorcerer, but I am no knight.” He joked.

Merlin took a long swig and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He gestured for Gwaine to sit, and the man dragged the stool around the desk so he was sitting facing Merlin, warming himself by the fire. Merlin tossed the flask back to Gwaine, who saluted him with it before drinking some more himself. Instead, Merlin leaned back in his seat and raised his eyebrow, in an uncanny imitation of Gaius.

“No? Then what are you doing rescuing maidens from towers? Or trying to, I suppose.”

“’S a bit of fun, ain’t it? The taverns all fun and good, but when you’ve been on the road for two days with nary a dram you start looking for a distraction. Even if you get no _thrymsas_ from it, there’s at least a chance of a good tumble, if she’s grateful enough.” Gwaine winked at that, and waggled his eyebrows. Ignoring the flush trying to crawl up his face, Merlin stared at him, unimpressed, and crossed his arms.

“You can forget _that_. There’ll be no grateful tumbling here, not least because you’ve rescued me from exactly nothing.” He commented.

“About that. What are you doing out here anyway, Merlin? This place isn’t exactly subtle, considering you’re living in Camelot.”

Merlin caught the flask as it returned and took another sip, swishing it around in his mouth before enjoying the warm burn of it down his throat as he swallowed.

“This place doesn’t even have a _door_ , does it seem like that kind of place you’d _want_ to live in?” He pointed out.

Gwaine frowned.

“…I don’t get it. You don’t want to live here, but you don’t want to be rescued either. It’s good for a man to have pride, but at a certain point it’s just-“

“ _Oi, idiot, let me up there already_.” He was interrupted by a shout floating up to him outside. Even Merlin startled, but then berated himself; how had he forgotten he was coming?

Gwaine opened his mouth to say something, but Merlin shushed him, grabbing his arm and yanking him towards a large, tall cabinet standing against the wall. The door banged open with a flash of gold and Gwaine found himself shoved in, having to clamber over several books covering the bottom to stop himself falling over. The flask landed on his chest as it too was thrown in.

“What-“

“Just, shh. Sorry, but could you just, um, shh. For a moment, well for a bit. Um, he shouldn’t be long. Sorry.” Merlin finished with before pushing the door closed. There was no lock, so Gwaine was free to open the door a sliver to see what was happening in the room.

He saw Merlin stick his head out of the window, and the rope slither itself out of the tower too, rather like a large snake (Gwaine shivered; he hated snakes). It didn’t take long for Merlin to stagger back, a large sack in his arms. Following him was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a refined sense of arrogance in his bearing. Hair the colour of gold (or hay, Gwaine thought uncharitably) flopped on his head. Merlin dumped the bag on the desk with a loud clunk and turned to face the newcomer.

Where with Gwaine, his posture had been loose and relaxed, he now stood ramrod straight, tense. But he didn’t back down as the stranger walked up to him, looking right into his eyes.

“…You’re still here.” He said, somewhat redundantly.

“You’re still visiting.” Merlin shot back, almost defensively.

“Yes, well, my armour needs fixing.” He gestured grandly to the sack on the table. Merlin gaped at him, disbelieving.

“You dragged your _armour_ , all the way back here just so I could _polish_ it?” He choked out. Gwaine thought the blond man looked suddenly uncomfortable, but he crossed his arms and tried not to seem so.

“It’s as good an excuse to get away from George’s _pestering_ as anything. Besides, it’s part of your punishment.”

 _Punishment?_ Gwaine wondered at that, and the dark expression that suddenly clouded over Merlin’s face.

“I’m pretty sure Uther’s _punishment_ doesn’t include polishing his son’s armour.” He snapped out between gritted teeth. The stranger didn’t back down, just tossed his head.

“Well, if you don’t want to do it, just _leave_.” The last word was spoken with a strange emphasis.

With it, all the fight seemed to drain out of Merlin, and he slumped into his chair, idly playing with the rope that tied the bag closed.

“I’m not going to leave, Arthur.”

Arthur looked frustrated.

“Merlin-“

“No. Arthur, you might not want to admit it, but you need me here. I _need_ to be here. I can’t help you if I’m in Mercia, or Essetir, or Caerleon.”

In the cabinet, Gwaine flinched.

“You really are a total idiot, aren’t you? How many times do I need to tell you – _I don’t want you here!_ I don’t want you here, and my father _certainly_ doesn’t want you here, but to _gloat_! Just go!” Gwaine couldn’t tell whether the man was ordering or begging Merlin, but he didn’t like his tone either way. He narrowed his eyes at Arthur – he wasn’t sure where these spontaneous protective instincts towards Merlin had come from, but he never was one to deny himself, so he let himself feel offense for Merlin, who didn’t look like he was planning on standing up for himself here.

Merlin flinched as Arthur angrily swept his arm across the table, sending the bag crashing onto the stone floor.

“Merlin-“

“No. Arthur, I’m staying.” Merlin didn’t raise his voice, but his tone spoke of finality, and even Arthur seemed to sense it.

“Why, for once in your life, can’t you just do what you’re told?” He muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Merlin smiled back up at him tiredly.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“…perhaps not.” Arthur quietly agreed. Neither spoke, and the crackle of the fire filled the silence with sparks and pops.

“You should head back, my lord. The gates will close soon.” Merlin spoke first. Arthur grunted.

“Right. I’ll be back tomorrow and you’d better have my armour sparkling by then. You’ve got no excuse for laziness now.” Gwaine wasn’t sure whether that was a reference to Merlin’s magic, or the fact that he probably spent his whole day up in the tower, apparently reading and copying out books.

Merlin pulled a face.

“You’d think at least being imprisoned would excuse me from looking after your royal turnip-headedness. What did you do, roll in the muck with the pigs? It hasn’t even rained in days!” He complained, having opened the sack and looked inside. He pulled out a gauntlet. It looked like someone had indeed thrown it in a pig-pen.

“Shut up. I’m the prince of Camelot and I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of _you_.” The words were harsh, but Gwaine thought he could hear an underlying tone of fondness in it. He realised suddenly, belatedly, that this Arthur was _Arthur_ , as in Crown Prince _Arthur_. He wondered how a disgraced sorcerer (for it seemed like that was what Merlin was) came to know, and obviously become friends of a sort, with the son of the most renowned magic-hater in Albion.

Arthur wandered back to the window, but hesitated. He stuck out his arm, grasping Merlin’s forearm.

“Do you…need anything else?” He asked.

Merlin shook his head, so he cleared his throat, almost embarrassed and nodded in goodbye. Merlin gave him a face-splitting grin (which Gwaine thought looked very charming indeed) and then Arthur was gone, out of the window and down the rope.

Merlin just stood there, in the middle of the empty room, and looked out of the window. The cold breeze ruffled his hair, and in that moment he looked so alone, Gwaine’s heart ached for him; he knew that feeling. He had felt the same so many times, whether camping out in a deserted forest clearing, or amidst twenty drunk strangers in a pub – true friends were hard to come by, and when they left, a part of you went with them, something so fundamental, that it left a painful, deep hole in your soul; and when you found someone to fill that hole? You find yourself just waiting for them to leave and tear you apart again.

Lost in his thoughts, Gwaine was unbalanced by a shifting book, and fell, with a loud bang, out of the cabinet. Merlin, having obviously forgotten Gwaine was there, startled so badly he tripped over the stool, joining Gwaine on the floor. They caught the other’s eye and Gwaine couldn’t help but chuckle. Merlin wasn’t far behind, and so they found themselves just sprawled there, laughing at nothing but each other.

Gwaine was the first to find his footing, reaching down and hauling his new friend up, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. Merlin’s laughter trailed off, as he found himself knocked off balance yet again, but this time by Gwaine’s eyes. They were dark in daylight, but the fire showed a honey depth to them. They looked at him, really _looked_ , and he read understanding, and a painful empathy.

Merlin cleared his throat, trying to force down the sudden feeling of blockage, and turned away, stepping out of Gwaine’s proximity. He bent to pick up the stool he’d knocked over. Gwaine piped up with the inevitable question.

“So what’s the deal with you and the princess?”

Merlin looked at him with a small frown.

“Princess?” He asked, lost.

“Princess, princess who just brought you his armour.”

“Oh! Arthur? Um, it’s a long story.”

Gwaine looked around the room, first to the dark night that had fallen outside, then to the fire, then to the flask of sloshing _med_ in his hand.

“We’ve got time.”

Merlin bit his lip, but then shrugged. Instead of going back to his desk, he stepped around to his pallet, flinging himself down on it, staring up at the ceiling. The stone had a large black mark on it, where he’d been trying to juggle fireballs while lying down – his eyebrows had taken weeks to grow back. He saw Gwaine perch on the edge of his pallet.

“By the way, mate, why do you have a second bed?” He asked.

“Oh, Gwen comes to stay sometimes.” Merlin mumbled absently.

“Right…so, Arthur?”

Merlin sighed heavily. He didn’t like to think about how he’d managed to screw up his situation so badly, but those days came to him in his dreams and in the quiet moments between hours so often, relieving them once more wouldn’t make much difference. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Gwaine.

“Right, so there was this dragon…no, no. That was right at the start, that’ll take too long…I guess, _this_ whole business started when I tried to save Arthur. _Again_.”

Gwaine raised a silent eyebrow.

“He wasn’t having a great month – six times, he’d almost been assassinated. _Six times_. That’s ridiculous, even for him! I was getting so _tired_ ; you know how it is, running after the prince, fulfilling your destiny, studying magic, trying to keep his royal pig-headedness from offending every magic creature in his vicinity.”

“Hmmm.” Gwaine gave a non-committal grunt.

“In the end, it was so _mundane_. It was a run-of-the-mill assassin. He wasn’t even magical! But as I was saying, I was so _tired_ , I was getting lax. I stopped the knife hitting him with magic, forgetting we were in front of the whole court! There wasn’t really any way of hiding it then. ‘Course, Uther wanted to execute me right away.” He carried on, casually, like he was listing the chores for the day, not facing being burned for sorcery by the king.

“But…Arthur’s a good friend. No, really. He’s…different from his father. He’s better. Kilgarrah was right, once day he’ll make a great king. He talked to his father. I spent a few weeks in the royal dungeons, drugged up to here with whatever they use to keep sorcerers too wacked to use their magic to escape. In the end, Arthur managed to convince Uther to spare my life. I tried to thank him, but he- well, he didn’t really talk to me. I- I understand, _understood_ , in a way. I lied. To spare my life, but I lied, when he’d opened up to me about his struggles, had _trusted_ me. But I did what I had to, and I’m not ashamed of it.” Merlin added, and his face was intense as he said it.

“I think Arthur convinced Uther that I was worth more as a trophy. Like Kilgarrah, y’know.” Gwaine didn’t know, but also didn’t want to interrupt the flow of the story.

“He had me locked up here – apparently an old sorcerer named Lailoken used to live here in seclusion, and had magical boundaries set up that a normal sorcerer wouldn’t be able to escape from. Now, not to brag and all, but either time had weakened them, or Lailoken wasn’t the sharpest quill in the box, because they were pretty easily dismantled. Within a week, I could have left. I could leave now, tomorrow, anytime I want to.”

“Why do you stay?” Gwaine couldn’t stop himself asking.

“I…I have to stay. It’s not like I don’t have a _choice_ , exactly, but it’s…it’s _wyrd_ , you know. Like, _urlag_ has determined that I need to keep Arthur alive, that I need to lead him to the governing of Camelot, and uniting all of Anglia. And as I think you’ve guessed so far, Arthur has an inability to look after himself – I give it until _solmonath_ until some king of army or magical creature attacks Camelot. They will need my help then. I think this is why Uther also kept me. Like a guard-dog; you don’t play with it, or even pay attention to it, until there’s an enemy and then you set it loose on them. Not that I think Uther considers me as highly as a guard-dog.” Merlin added, bitterly.

Gwaine was utterly lost. On the one hand, he had to hand it to Arthur – he’d heard of how cruel and plain _mad_ Uther was, and for a son to stand up to his father was always a hard action, but to stand up to _King Uther_. Well, he’d probably rather face a wilddeoren slathered in honey.

On the other hand, Gwaine considered himself a good judge of character (you had to be, if you spent your life amongst shady barmen and nimble-fingered thieves), and he could tell Merlin was a good sort. He didn’t have to know him for long to _see_ it, in the way he smiled and laughed and still loved Arthur despite his situation. To see him live like this, for what sounded like a life spent serving and saving his prince…it was wrong, wrong on a level he thought fate must have something spectacularly good in store for Merlin to make up for it.

“Still, I guess it’s not all bad. Uther’s men come by once a month and drop off provisions at the base of the tower. Now I can use my magic without worrying about execution. Gwen and Gaius come by now and then to drop off books or flowers – ‘course I gotta clamber all the way down for Gaius; there’s no way he could get up here. His back, it’s a lot worse during the winter months. Arthur…Arthur feels bad, I know. He’s done more than I expected at this stage, to be honest. Every now and then he comes by and tries to drive me away, to make me leave, frankly anywhere but here. He doesn’t want Uther to use me like some weapon, or for me to stay cooped up here. But hey, I never do what Arthur tells me. Nobody gets nowhere doing what some puffed up noble tells ‘em to.” Merlin grinned.

Gwaine barked out a laugh at that.

“Hear, hear!” He toasted with the _med_ , handing it to Merlin to do the same. The alcohol left Merlin’s lips shiny and wet and Gwaine found himself momentarily transfixed.

“-nd that’s me.” Merlin finished, Gwaine tuning back in.

“Doesn’t sound like it, mate. Sounds like you’re leaving out a lot of things.” Normally Gwaine doesn’t pry into peoples’ business – it doesn’t pay, especially in foreign territories. But he liked Merlin, he liked the way he talked, and the way he lay and the way he smiled and woah, maybe he’d had a bit too much. Never the less, he took another swig of _med_.

Merlin turned over on his back and flung an arm over his eyes with a groan.

“Oh yeah, but that really _will_ take too long. On the other hand…” One eye peeked out from under his arm and fixed a long stare onto Gwaine.

“What about you, not-Sir Gwaine. Surely there’s a tale somewhere between your flask and your sword?” He teased, curious.

“Little old me?” Gwaine teased back. For a moment he was tempted to foist off the same old tired lie he span to most chums every other tavern – peasant boy, left his village in search of adventure, went from town to town escaping debt and chasing the next tankard. Honour was somewhat of a loose topic as far as Gwaine was concerned, but in this case, it felt uncharitable to shut down when Merlin had laid his story out before him like illuminated vellum.

“It’s nothing too interesting – no magic or princes, I’m afraid. My father was a knight-“

“A knight?”, Merlin interrupted, interested, “What’s that like?”

“I don’t really remember. I was very young when he died, in the name of Caerleon if you could believe it – there was a big battle in Dumnonia. Caerleon wanted to get his hands on Isca; they call is Escanceaster now. Caerleon was a crazy _dalcop_ thought – he sent 200 men against 300 Dumnonian barbarians and 100 Saxon mercenaries. They were slaughthered, as my father tried to tell Caradog, the king’s cousin who was leading the campaign. But you know how it goes – theirs was not to make reply. His death left my mother, brother, sister and I and all our lands in the hands of the king. Gareth was barely eight summers then, myself almost six. Gwyneth was ten summers then, too young to marry to save our lands. We were dependent upon the mercy of the king – he could take our lands and turn us out if he so wished. I had heard that he did indeed plan on this, but then a lord Culloch stepped forward. He made a proposal to mother – she accepted, for us. She was heartbroken after my father’s death. There was a physician in and out of our home for years, and he spoke only of ailments of grief, until she passed in my ten and first summer. It didn’t help how he raised his hand against her and…us.” Gwaine swallowed.

Merlin’s hand reached out and wrapped around his forearm, a steadying, comforting grip.

“But that was not the worst. Culloch had Gareth and I train to become knights. I was esquired to Bruin the Black. He was a son of a Moor in Caerleon’s service for many years. He was a trusted member of the court, and he knew many secrets they spoke of only in the shadows. He also couldn’t hold his ale. I had to drag him to his quarters many nights. From him I heard of what Culloch had done, and what Caradog had asked of Caerleon.”

Gwaine’s fist had clenched in his bed-sheets, and his teeth ground in anger. Merlin thought his face was more suited to the Bacchalian revelry he seemed to so love, rather than this dreadful hatred.

“Culloch had been in love with my mother for years before my father courted her. She had turned down his advances however. When Culloch heard of the campaign to Isca, he spoke to Caradog, whom his sister had married. My father was never supposed to go on the doomed expedition. He was one of the King’s personal knights – he had been kept back to guard the king! But at Culloch’s urging, Caradog asked for my father to come on the campaign. But he knew! That leasing monger knew my father wouldn’t make it back. He had spoken to the king about the futility of the campaign – it is why the king’s personal knights were not to go. Yet Caerleon let my father go into a futile battle on the whim of a cousin. Culloch wanted my father dead, because he knew then that my mother would be in no position to turn him down. He could then wed her _and_ get his filthy hands on my father’s lands.” Gwaine spat the words out like a mouthful of cobwebs.

“My father was a good man, Merlin. He was kind and he was true, everyone said so. He married my mother, who was from common stock, and had a dowry of two sheep and silk bed-linen. He married for love, not for money, or titles or lust. The want of those things is spawned by life at the court. Greed is the root of all misery, and it is conceived by nobility and their selfish ways. When I heard of what he had done – and when I confronted him, he was so haughty as to all but confess to it himself – I could not stay. I could not owe loyalty to the man who ordered my father to his death, nor one who called men like Culloch and Caradog ‘family’. By the time I left, Gwyneth was married, and Gareth to be a knight. I could not tell him, for his knighthood was his dream, and he always had a delicate soul about him. It would have broken him…” Gwaine trailed off and turned his head, palm dug deep into an eye-socket as his eyes stung.

“You’ve suffered, Gwaine. I don’t make to understand how much pain you had to go through, but you weathered Culloch’s ills and have become an honourable man.”

Gwaine couldn’t help but laugh at being called ‘honourable’.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t need to. The way you talk, your _ideas_ , they speak your history for you. You have rules, ideals, right and wrong, and they _are_ noble. Maybe they afford you no title, but your ideals are worth more than land and position.” Merlin assured him, grip on his arm tightening. When he looked back at the other man, Merlin’s face was honest, blue eyes boring into his own. It looked like Merlin was trying to make Gwaine believe what he was saying with his eyes alone.

And damn if Gwaine didn’t fall for it.

“You are too good to be locked away up here, my friend.” Gwaine said eventually. Merlin shot him that big grin, like he had Arthur, and warmth infused his belly, like the delayed effects of his _med_.

“Well, I happen to agree with you on that. _But_ what are us poor blaggards to do, hmm?” He smirked.

“Eat, drink and be merry?” Gwaine offered – tonight had been more soul-baring than he’d expected, and the return to natural habit relaxed him. As he waved their _med_ flask, he heard the low slosh and was glad he had another two stashed away in his pack. He wasn’t planning to stop drinking before sunrise. Merlin winked at him.

“If you insist.”

Gwaine’s eyes followed Merlin as he got up with a small groan and opened one of the cabinets, pulling out wax-paper wrapped cheese and salted dried pork strips. They were better quality than most things Gwaine ate on the road, and he couldn’t help but be glad Uther wasn’t starving Merlin on top of imprisoning him (in the back of his mind he thought that Arthur probably  had a hand in that too – he seemed the kind of man to do such a thing).

That night they drank their way through all of Gwaine’s flasks of _med_ and ale, ate more cheese and meat than they probably should have, and laughed over some of the more outrageous tales they swapped from Merlin’s tales of the castle and Gwaine’s stories from the vagabond’s road. As tar-black night bled into a thistle-bloom pink dawn, Gwaine felt more at ease than he had done for many years. Whether this was the effect of a safe harbour and copious amounts of alcohol or simply _Merlin_ , he couldn’t be sure.

As he looked over at the snoring, gangly figure of Merlin on the pallet, he couldn’t help but think it was the latter.

Maybe he’d stick around the tower for a while.


End file.
